


Man in the Moon

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU: childhood secret, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:24:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3090509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's some things that need to stay in the past. Sherlock is very firm on this. Especially as there's some parts of his childhood that can never be deleted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man in the Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saki101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/gifts).



> There's discussion of stalking, mental health issues, and alcoholism herein. Be ye warned.

Sherlock wasn't afraid. Not really. He didn't  _do_  fear. Not for himself. When the first letter came, he read it, rolled his eyes, tossed it in the fire.  _Old fashioned, waste of paper, easy to destroy, amateur._  He didn't even bother analyzing the ink or handwriting, not beyond what his brain was quick to supply whether he liked it or not.

  
The second letter came with a picture. It was twenty years old, creased and folded, cut out of a magazine.  _Teen Screams and Scenes_. The crowd of teenagers stood around a huge plastic moon with a rather disturbing face molded into it, smile twisted into something between a grimace and pleasure. Sherlock hated it. The teenagers were grinning but none of them looked truly happy to be there. They were too old for it, too bored with the entire thing. Sherlock held the picture between his thumb and forefinger, hesitating a heartbeat before consigning it to the late autumn fire as well. The letter read much the same as the first—no demands for money, no threats on anyone's life. Two sentences:  **I know. So will he.**

  
The third letter was an email with a video attached—the teenagers from the magazine picture, this time in motion, dancing and singing around the plastic moon-man. With the sound turned down, it looked like a pagan ritual with poor production values. Sherlock sneered. The address was a burner, set up via a service that deleted it after an hour, all attempts at tracing it leading back to the same server farm in San Luis Obispo, California. Sherlock growled at the empty flat, threw his laptop onto John's empty chair, and dug his stash of unfiltereds out of the skull on the mantel. John wouldn't be home till after three—working an overnight shift at A&E, new job now that his practice was shot, thanks to Mary, thanks to ties not only to a notorious consulting detective but now to Moriarty's right hand, the one who went out in a blaze of glory in the middle of Kensington three years ago. Sherlock lit his first cigarette of the evening and leaned out the window, knowing and not caring John would be able to smell it anyway when he came in, but going through the motions of making an effort because he did love the silly man, after all.

  
Letters four and five came on the same day. Four was another email, this time with a very large video file attached—thirty minutes of the teens dancing, singing, acting out some dreadful skits about friendship and understanding, all focused on the spotty, lanky boy called Scotty. He had a flat Northern accent and never quite looked at the camera. But during the dance numbers, he  _owned_  the place. He had talent, he had grace, he was a natural. He smiled at the pretty ginger girl who was his partner for the friendship numbers, winked at the camera for the silly numbers... Sherlock deleted it immediately. Five was another posted letter, slipped through the mail slot and left on the floor in the front entry. No pictures, no video. No words, even. Just a shoelace. A silvery, frayed, thick shoelace. Sherlock held it over the fire, hesitated, then shoved it deep in his trouser pocket.

 

***

  
John caught letter number six. Sherlock knew that it was bound to happen. He was out on a case—a real ten, something wonderful (bit not good, but wonderful) and John was working an unexpected half-shift. He was home when the post came, home when the blue envelope sprayed with a boyish, overbearing cologne arrived. He was waiting in his chair when Sherlock returned hours later, waiting with the letter on his lap, lips pursed, tumbler of scotch resting on the arm of the chair. “When were you going to tell me?”

  
“Tell you what?” Sherlock winced. It was a juvenile response but fell out of his mouth unbidden. John snorted—he obviously agreed. “Can't dally, John. I need to meet Lestrade at the Queen's Cock for a spot of surveillance and--”

  
“And,” John cut him off, Captain Watson in his tone, “you're evading me, Sherlock. How long have you been receiving blackmail letters?”

  
Sherlock hissed his annoyance, hanging his coat and scarf before flinging himself towards his—theirs, now—bedroom. John followed, because he's John, and Sherlock kept his back turned towards him whilst rifling for disguise pieces.

  
“Sherlock, it's a picture of you with the word 'liar' written across your face!”

  
“And how does that imply blackmail, John? Really! I get hate mail dozens of time per month.”

  
“Per week,” John muttered. “You're not the one clearing out the business emails.”

  
“Whatever.” Sherlock decided on a rather suspect denim jacket and grabbed the box of false beards and mustaches. “You see but you do not observe, John. Hate mail is not blackmail.”

  
John's fingers brushed his wrist as Sherlock pushed past him, heading for the loo. “I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, no matter what you seem to think.”

  
Sherlock paused in the doorway, but did not respond. After a handful of seconds, John sighed and his footsteps thumped heavily all the way back to the sitting room. He was gone when Sherlock emerged in his disguise, and asleep when Sherlock returned hours later.

 

***

  
Sherlock awakened to the insistent press of John's erection against his lower back. John was mostly asleep, barely stirring awake, not quite aware this wasn't a dream. Sherlock sighed and wriggled back against him, relishing the tease of skin and heat, John's cock protruding from the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and Sherlock's shirt riding up high. John made a noise between a grunt and a moan, pressing hard against Sherlock's back, his hands wiggling and grasping until he found Sherlock's nipples. “Good morning,” Sherlock murmured, eyes half-closed as John came fully awake.

  
“This alright, then?” His voice was raspy, heavy with sleep and growing arousal.

  
Sherlock hummed his consent, arching back again, rolling his hips in invitation. John's groan was more pronounced his time, loud in the morning stillness. They had been lovers for over a year, still new enough to be uncertain sometimes, to wonder if this was really happening. Sherlock melted into a full-body shudder, wondering just that, as John's fingers moved, one and going down low, grasping the erection tenting Sherlock's pants, the other hand going up, fingers curving and three fitting into Sherlock's mouth. He moaned and John laughed breathlessly, his cock damp now, leaking against Sherlock's back. The grunt around his fingers elicited another giggle, nervous now, and there was a flurry of limbs and bedding as clothing was shed and hands returned to place, Sherlock eagerly sucking and riding John's fingers. He knew what was coming, what John wanted, and he felt his body jolt with  _wantneednow_. Fingers sliding out of his mouth with a wet pop, Sherlock gasped, turning onto his belly when John nudged him, lifting his hips for the pillow. The first push of John's cock into his tight hole was exquisite, not quite pain but a definite  _awareness_ , knowledge he could have been looser, could have been slicker, but John wanted him now, sooner than now, was claiming him. Their argument the day before hadn't been forgotten or laid aside, but was fueling the deep strokes that filled him, John's hips snapping against the lush curve of Sherlock's arse.

  
“Mine,” John growled, bending to lick anywhere he could reach, tasting the sweat and night-damp skin of Sherlock's back and neck. “Love you, no matter...doesn't matter, Sherlock, I swear...” He thrust hard, fingers digging in so deeply that they both knew Sherlock's hips would bear bruises for days and days.

  
Sherlock pushed back, grinding his own erection against the pillow, desperate for  _more_ , shoving hard onto John's cock, riding against him, feeling his belly tighten, his balls draw up. “John,” he breathed, “need to... please...”

  
John grunted, knowing, and reached beneath Sherlock, gripped his cock and let Sherlock dictate the pace, holding himself still as Sherlock rocked his hips. He gasped as Sherlock tightened around him, hot come spurting and smearing on his fingers, Sherlock's belly, the pillow case. It was only a few moments later that his own release came, and Sherlock moaned, gutteral and raw. “Sherlock,” he panted, stretching against Sherlock's back, letting his cock soften. “You're mine. It's caveman of me, I know, but... but I don't like the thought of someone blackmailing you, trying to hurt you like this.”

  
Sherlock snorted. “This bothers you more than an attempt on my life? You gave me a peck on the cheek after someone nearly missed my carotid artery with a serrated knife last week. I get a few ridiculous letters in the mail and now you're worried?”

  
“Oi! I was terrified after the knife incident!” John smacked him lightly on the shoulder, voice light but Sherlock could hear the tremor. “I puked my guts out that night, thank you very much, because I couldn't stop thinking of what would happen if I'd been just ten seconds slower, or if he hadn't been wearing such a heavy coat that it queered his aim.” He tangled sticky fingers into Sherlock's hair, not caring. “Sherlock, I can't stand the idea of someone hurting you, in any way, but at least when we're out there, together, I can...I can try and protect you. I know, you don't need me to protect you, fine, whatever, but... But I can. This? This blackmail? I can't do anything about it, especially if you're not telling me anything.”

  
Sherlock thought of the burned letters, the picture, the video, the silver shoelace. He closed his eyes and turned his face away, pressing it into the sweaty sheet beneath his head. “John, there's nothing to tell. Some idiotic pictures, no demands for money or threats on my life. It's amateur hour and not worth my—our—time.”

  
John was silent for several long minutes. “I know what you're doing, saying 'our' like that. Making me feel important.”

  
“You are important, John. Never doubt that. If you love me, you will never doubt your importance to me. To The Work.” He shifted, wriggling like a fish till he faced John. “Do you understand?”

  
“Hmm. You've got come in your hair.”

  
“Whose fault is that, sticky fingers?” Sherlock knew that John wasn't letting it go, knew John hadn't answered him, but also knew when to pick his battles. He stretched, smearing his own sticky fingers across John's chest. “Shall I shower first? Or do you bags first dibs?”

  
John smiled. “Let's go together. Mrs Hudson is always on us to conserve water, isn't she?”

 

***

  
There was no letter number seven. Instead, there was a cookie. A large, yellow-iced cookie, decorated to look like the Man in the Moon. It was delivered to the A&E where John worked with a note saying “Enjoy!” John had no idea what was going on when the nurses kept telling him how sweet his boyfriend was, how nice to send a treat, until he reached the break room. The cookie was mostly gone, but the note remained.

  
**Sherlock, why the cookie cake?**

  
**We're British, John. They're biscuits, not cookies. SH**

  
**No, this was most definitely a cookie. It was the size of Mrs H's serving platter, done up to look like a moon or something.**

  
**Stay there. SH**

  
**Sherlock, what the Hell?**

  
**Sherlock? Answer me, goddamnit!**

  
**Is this to do with a case? Should I warn the staff? A lot of them ate some of it!**

  
**Goddamnit, Sherlock!**

 

***

  
Sherlock was used to glares, whispers, spit invectives, but something about an entire shift of A&E nurses, doctors, and techs giving him death glares was unsettling. “They think you poisoned them as some part of an experiment!”

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you didn't insist on posting those ridiculous stories--”

  
“They aren't ridiculous,” John snarled. “They're true. You have poisoned me before!”

  
“You, yes. Strangers, no! Not since uni, anyway.” He shoved his gloves into his coat pocket and turned a slow circle, taking in the faces of the staff he could see. “No one appears ill. It's been over two hours since most of them ate any of the...substance... I'm sure you're all fine.”

  
John rolled his eyes. “That's not the point!”

  
“I didn't send it, John. It's... it's to do with the blackmail.” He poked at the remains of the cookie with one bare finger. “Where's the card?” John held it out between two fingers and Sherlock snorted. “Really, John? Do you think this is something I'd do?”

  
“No,” John admitted, “but the nurses sure did. And Doctor Doyle. And Doctors Fitz and Simmons.”

  
“Romantic tripe,” Sherlock muttered. John snorted softly. “Did anyone see who dropped it off? I'm assuming you've been with me long enough to know the preliminaries, John?”

  
“Now is not the time to be a dick, Sherlock. Yes, I know the drill. Dropped off by a uniformed delivery person from a courier service, not a bakery. Already checked—the service is legit.”

  
“Ah, but is the courier?”

  
John groaned. “Ugh, always something...”

  
“I'll give you a pass on this one, but pay attention next time!” Sherlock turned away and strode towards the nurse station outside the break room. “I need security footage! Eye witnesses! Data, John! I need data!”

  
The three nurses who were at the desk when the courier dropped off the present all agreed—he was short, ginger, and very thin. He didn't speak, just grunted, held out the clipboard for a signature, and left before anyone could get a word out of him. Sherlock's expression went from neutral boredom to brow-crinkling consideration. “Height? Identifying marks? Condition of his uniform? For pity's sake, is everyone here blind and stupid, or just this lot?”

  
“Oi,” John cautioned, “shut it! It's not their job to be detectives, Sherlock. You'd better hope none of them work on you next time you're injured!”

  
“Hmph.” Sherlock pointed to one of the grey ladies, hovering just at the edge of the station. “You! You saw him, didn't you? You saw him but are too embarrassed to say anything! Why?”  
She ducked her head, looking down to where her fingers were twisting in her pinafore. “It's not my place to tell someone's secret, is it?”

  
“What do you mean, Janet?” John asked kindly, pushing Sherlock back and putting himself between them. “What secrets? Did you know him?”

  
“No, but...well, you can tell sometimes, can't you? My husband, he used to, um, dress up a bit...” she trailed off, shrugged. “It's not my place.”

  
Sherlock blinked rapidly. “The courier was a woman trying to pass as male?”

  
“Sherlock.” John's tone was warning, strained.

  
“Aye,” Janet muttered. “Sometimes you can just tell. She weren't trying to be a man, she was just dressed like one.”

  
“Hmm. Thank you, Jane.”

  
“Janet.”

  
“Quite.” Sherlock felt a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. “Would you say she was about my age?”

  
“Um. Maybe?”

  
One of the nurses piped up. “Maybe mid thirties, but very young-looking. Smooth face, like.” The other nurses made noises of agreement.

  
Sherlock bit back a groan. “I have to go. Now. John...”

  
“Four hours left on my shift,” he said, heading off any demands at the pass, for all the good it would do.

  
“John, they don't want money. They don't want my life. They want to shame me,” Sherlock said in a tight, low voice. “There's something I've never told you. Something...something horrible.” He watched the color drain from John's face. “I cannot ask you to stay once you find out,” he said in a rush. “I won't blame you for leaving. But I ask that you try to understand.”

  
“Sherlock,” John pulled him away from the main floor, towards the nearest triage area, blessedly empty. “Sherlock, whatever it is...”

  
“It's terrible, John. I haven't spoken of it in almost twenty years.” He felt queasy, hot and cold at the same time as he tried to make the words come. Finally, he shook his head and peered down at John with eyes that felt gritty and sharp. “I know who has been doing this, and I may even know why. But... but I can't be sure yet. If they are trying to pull you into this, it means my humiliation is at hand. They're tired of playing with me. I didn't react as they desired, didn't panic and track them down. Now... now they're making their final move.” John's phone buzzed like angry hornets, but they both ignored it. John was grey-faced, his lips pressed into a thin line as he clutched at Sherlock's arms. “John, I promise you, you are not in danger of being murdered or physically harmed. This is all to shame me, to ruin what I have been able to rebuild of my reputation.”

  
“Right,” John said, mustering his resolve. “I don't know what happened, Sherlock, but short of genocide or puppy murders, I can forgive you anything. I love you, you berk, and...and I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, not if I can help it.”

  
Sherlock smiled thinly and brushed a kiss across John's forehead. “I think I've already done the damage myself, years ago. Come straight home after work. If I'm not there...don't open the door, answer the phone, or even check email until I return.” He was gone before John could so much as exhale.

 

***

  
In the end, it was almost sad, how easy it was to track down the ersatz courier. He remembered all of their names, even twenty years later. Remembered which ones had lied about their age, which had lied about where they were from, which had siblings, and which one had red hair. She had been twelve when the show began, the Man in the Moon series that was less educational than the BBC would have liked, but had a huge following that raked in the young views. A yearly summer tour had spawned off the show, and a Christmas event held in London the last three years of the show. Songs, dancing, a few skits, lots of photographs and scripted interviews... She was the youngest person on the cast, after Scotty. Scotty whom she adored, slipped notes to under dressing room doors, tried to seduce in the way only teenagers think is adult and sexy, tried to make him something he never could be. Rebecca, Becks on the show, had been hysterical when Man in the Moon was cancelled. She sent Scotty reams of poetry, calling him  _her_  man in the moon, her mystical, mythical being... And one day, she just stopped. Other cast members stopped hearing from her, no one saw her at the few reunion shows the Beeb trotted out for Children in Need over the years, until, one by one, all of the former cast members refused to show. Becks was forgotten. Becks, the bright-eyed, clear-voiced ginger girl with the silvery shoes who was the Man in the Moon's 'special helper,' the show's 'moon girl' who started and ended each episode with the theme song sung over the credits. Sherlock gritted his teeth and looked at the scrap of paper where he'd scrawled the address. Rebecca Miller, age thirty eight, single (not for lack of trying), and largely forgotten by her once adoring audience, relegated to the dimmest corners of a mind palace by Scotty Williams. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Former child star with a fake accent and even more fake auburn hair. Scotty who had never existed outside the Man in the Moon, and would just not  _bloody go away_ , no matter how badly Sherlock tried to erase him. Her address was in Tooting, a shared flat with her sister and niece. Sherlock hailed a cab and snapped out the address before settling back and closing his eyes, bracing himself for the box in the dusty attic corner that was about to come tumbling open.

 

***

  
Sherlock had been gone just over an hour before John remembered his phone had been buzzing like crazy during their talk. It was a slow few minutes between intake patients so he ducked into the lounge to check messages.

  
**PREPARE TO BE SURPRISED!**

  
**WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SCOTTY? SHERLOCK HOLMES KILLED HIM!**

  
John felt a trickle of ice down his spine at that, but he swallowed, pushing it away. He'd heard worse from Donovan, he reminded himself.  _Sally forth..._

  
**PLAY ME**  John hesitated. The message included a link to a video hosted on a popular website, titled “Scotty Dances!” He glanced at the door, made sure he was alone, and clicked the link. The footage was wobbly, tiny on his phone's screen, but he could still see it was the opening credits from that Man in the Moon show Harry had been crazy about when he was in secondary school. He tried watching it once or twice but it was boring, all singing and dancing routines about friendship and recycling and the like. He'd teased Harry, said she was too old for it, and she'd told him to fuck off. It was only later it occurred to him she likely had a crush on one or two of the girls in the cast. The footage wobbled again and John realized it had been recorded by someone holding a camera up to a television playing an episode, and they were fast forwarding while they recorded. The image stabilized in the middle of a song, kids singing about Christmas and winter. They were dressed in fluffy jumpers and boots, all color coordinated, all in a sort of kick-line. The line split into two and opened into a v-shape as fake snowflakes dropped down, dangling on silvery wire from just out of frame. Between the two sides of the v, a couple danced out in an extravagant if amateur waltz. The male was tall, lithe, and moved like a born dancer. The girl was the tiny ginger John remembered as the 'moon maiden' character, the one who was supposed to be the star of the show. They twirled and swirled and finally, moved apart. The girl began a complicated ballet-style routine that John supposed was to mimic the snow falling, and the boy dropped to one knee and gazed at her adoringly. The image froze and zoomed in. The face was familiar—stunningly so. Even with a bit of the roundness of youth still on the cheeks, and the auburn hair. His brows weren't as heavy, and his face bore no lines yet, but it was Sherlock. It was, John realized, with a mix of amusement and embarrassment, Sherlock. The screen went purple and words began to scroll across it.  **Scotty Williams, Sherlock Holmes, which is the truth? He lied to you once, why not again?**  The video ended, and John was suddenly very certain he needed to leave. Right now. Two hours left on his shift be damned. His phone buzzed again and he looked down reluctantly.

  
**Too late, it seems. SH**

  
**Just got a call from Lestrade. Apparently, I'm a new internet sensation. SH**

  
**John? SH**

  
John closed his eyes, secondhand embarrassment washing over him. He couldn't imagine what Sherlock was feeling, not even a little.  **Is Lestrade going to take her in?**

  
**Not his division. SH**

  
John gritted his teeth. Greg was his mate, but he'd dearly love to shake him sometimes.  **Now what?**

  
**Going home. Thinking. SH**

  
**You?**

  
**Be there in ten. Bringing kebabs.** The fact Sherlock did not reply with his usual displeasure over kebabs told John all he needed to know.

 

***

  
Sherlock was already home by the time John arrived, kebabs in tow. He threw his coat and attache on the kitchen table (blessedly clean for now) and brandished the take out at Sherlock. “You will eat one. You will take two paracetamol and a full glass of water. In the morning, we will press charges for harassment against this person. And we will go on as we've been going on.”

  
“John,” Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

  
“When I was twelve, I wanted to be in a band. My friends and I started one. It was terrible.”

  
“I've heard you sing. I can believe that.”

  
“Shut it. At any rate, we'd gear up and practice in my folks' garage, you know? Full on practice, dressed the part and everything. I have, in my possession, on my laptop, right at this moment, twenty minutes of me, with a mullet—no, not the fish, don't give me that look—full glam rock make up, wearing Harry's leggings and a torn up vest, screeching about _Come on, Eileen._  It's going online tonight.”

  
Sherlock sat up straight and stared. “What? Why?”

  
“This video of you... it was released to all and sundry, yeah?”

  
“Yes. It's...quite popular.” Sherlock nodded at his open computer where over three hundred emails vied for his attention, all about the video, all about his past as a child song and dance star. Reporters wanting comment, clients wondering if he did parties now, the BBC asking if he was interested in his own show... John blinked at the last one. “No,” Sherlock growled. “Not even for the amount they're offering.”

  
John nodded slowly. “Right. Well. Look, I love you. You love me, yeah? We're in this thing together. You get your singing and dancing splashed about online, I'm going down with you.” He saluted Sherlock with a kebab. “And we're pressing charges on that bint.”

  
Sherlock snorted. “She was in love with 'Scotty'. Never got over it. She's... not well, her sister said. In and out of treatment over the years, voluntary discharge a month or so ago. Drinks,” he added, glancing a John from beneath his lashes. “Not an excuse, but a reason,” he added. “Anyway. She's been bitter for years that I never...Scotty never returned her feelings. She didn't figure Sherlock was the same person as Scotty until after the, ah... after I came back from...being away. Something clued her in, she got it, and...”he huffed a breath. “She became obsessed. Her sister showed me Rebecca's bedroom. It was covered in old pictures from the show, newer ones of you and me but she'd cut you out, pasted herself in...”

  
“This...this is getting to you, isn't it?” John set his food aside and scooted closer to Sherlock on the sofa. “Sherlock...”

  
“How did I miss the signs? She was always more than fascinated with me... I don't understand...”

  
“Oi, hey, it's not your fault, yeah? And she... she needs help.” He pulled Sherlock in for a one-armed embrace and sighed. “I'm still posting my scrawny arse singing the greatest hits of the 80's online. Can't have you having all the fun, can I?”

  
Sherlock snorted. “It's horrible, John, what I did... the singing, the  _smiling_...”

  
John nodded solemnly. “I think that's the one thing I can never forgive. The smiling like a loon about recycling.”

  
Sherlock made a wet noise against John's shoulder. “Twat.”

  
“Shut up and eat your kebab.”

  
“John?”

  
“Hmmm?”

  
“Would you be interested in wearing leggings and a torn vest now? For science, of course.”

  
John snorted. “Well, if it's for science...”

  


 


End file.
